


Turns out there's something unusual about the woman

by salable_mystic



Series: Destinies, earlier and later. [4]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salable_mystic/pseuds/salable_mystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four people Cordelia encounters on Zoave Twilight.</p><p>(Part 4 in the "Destinies, Earlier & Later" series).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turns out there's something unusual about the woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glishara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glishara/gifts).



*-*-*-* Phani Ver, Barkeeper, _Dobson’s Asteroid Drinking Hall_ , Zoave Twilight *-*-*-*

The woman knows her wines, that’s for sure. She’s a little out of place here, not quite the type he usually gets in _Dobson’s Asteroid_ , but she’s suave and smooth and not without success in her efforts to blend in. He thinks: there’s someone used to assessing the mood and atmosphere of a room.

He’d noticed her when she walked in the door, and it had seemed to him as if she did just that – assesses her surroundings and the people in it, and then chose how to act according to that assessment. A politician, maybe? Or an entertainer? Certainly someone used to working a room, at any rate.

He’s reassessing his initial opinion now, and striking the entertainer from the list. A politician she might be, though, he’s keeping that option open. It’s a game for him, during shifts, to try to guess little pieces about his customers’ lives. Most of the time he does not find out whether he guessed correctly or not, of course, but with some of the regulars he eventually gets to know enough to confirm a conjecture or to nix a speculation, and it's always fun, and something to keep him busy on slow shifts.

She studies the list of wines he has available, asks him some insightful questions about them, and finally decides to try one of their local reds, instead of one of the fiendishly expensive – and equally overpriced – imports. She lets slip that she tried an Illyrican white last month that she really did not care for much, but that nothing was as bad as the white politeness had forced her to drink on Orient. He’s good at making people reveal little bits of information about themselves like that, and she plays along willingly enough – even though he is sure she knows exactly what he is doing, that they’re playing this game. She asks her questions in turn, about the local wines and Zoave Twilight politics and the local sights, so it’s five minutes of pleasant give and take on a slow night in a portside bar. Polite conversation, someone to talk to. Something easy.

He did notice that she had lingered a bit over their Barrayaran selection, though, and he’s pretty sure that that is not something she’d meant him to see. And, well, those are good wines, if not outstanding ones. Little asked for. Not something to linger over in bemusement objectively, so her pause had to be for sentimental reasons.

He makes a joke as he pours her a taster of the best local red they have in stock, and she laughs obligingly before turning her attention to the glass and expertly swirling the red liquid around in it.

So, he thinks, re-assessing her from their short conversation. Off-worlder. Comfortably off, if not rich – the prices on the wine list had not given her pause, and he’s pretty sure they did not influence her decision to try the local varieties. Her curiosity made that choice, not her credit chit. She’s well educated. Well-travelled. Either restless or lonely, he thinks, but probably both.

 

 

*-*-*-* Roy Fertulon, Private, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet *-*-*-*

Roy’s in a quiet little bar half a mile or so away from the spaceport – a little too quiet and tame for his tastes, to be honest, but he’s looking for an evening of relaxation and recovery, since he’s been partying the last couple of days – when he first notices her. It’s kind of hard not to notice her – or so at least he thinks, to himself – as she draws his attention to herself like a flame. Not in a flamboyant way, but she has this kind of aura going on, an air that speaks of self-assurance and intelligence. And the short and unruly black hair and the grey eyes don’t hurt, either. She’s talking to the bartender right now, and something that he says is making her laugh as he hands her a glass with a splash of wine in it, and she sips it with the familiar movements of someone who knows something about wine. She seems pleased with her choice and the bartender fills up her glass to the full measure, saying something that makes her laugh again, and shake her head in amusement. She’s … alive in a way that most patrons of this unremarkable den of mediocrity just aren’t, somehow, and it draws him in.

Not that he’s even remotely interested in picking her up – she’s old enough to be his mother, at least – probably his grandmother, even, depending on which planet she is from – but he would not say no to an evening of intelligent conversation. While his week has been many things, intelligent conversation has not featured in it a great deal so far.

Plus, he’s tired of cooling his heels, and it will be at least a couple of days before his crew swings by to pick him and the others up – they finished the job early, and now its all a waiting game, and so the Serge all told them to go and enjoy themselves until the transport arrives. He lost the others by day two of their impromptu shore leave, and now, by day five, he’s … restless. Wants to get moving, shake the dust of this world from his heels … and he can’t. Nothing to do but wait. He’s … never been good at waiting.

So he thinks, what the hell, and grabs his drink and makes his way over to where she is sitting. Maybe she’s bored, too, and looking for some innocuous conversation to while away the evening hours.

\--

Turns out that she is – well, not bored, not precisely, but definitely amenable to spending some time in conversation, wasting the evening away. Her name is Elizabeth Skysmith, and she is just as intelligent as he hoped she’d be, and bright and witty, and so he doesn’t mind that she’s rather tight-lipped about her past – after a question or two that she evades, he gets the message, and he doesn’t bother her about it any more. There’re plenty of reasons why one might not want to dwell on past events, after all, and whatever reasons she has for it, he can respect that she has them, and mind the boundaries. Plus, it’s nice and easy to just spend some time conversing with a stranger in passing, without needing to reveal anything about yourself that you would rather keep quiet. He appreciates the chance to remain equally evasive, and so describes his reason to be on planet and at loose ends as merely “Finished a trade job early, am now waiting for my lot to pick me up” – and it's true enough, even if it is not the whole truth. They’d been sent to trade for some ship gear and supplies, all right, even if his job in it all had just been to stand by during the negotiations and look a little menacing. He fills out the uniform nicely, after all, and it’s a change of pace from hanging out on board waiting for some action – even if all the trade talk mostly made his eyes glaze over. And you never know what direction trouble might come from, so it’s always best to be prepared for it. Words of the Admiral, those, and true words they are.

She, in turn, only tells him that she’s “Looking for a new vocation to try her hand at,” and so he figures she’s between jobs, even if that is a mighty fancy way of putting it. But then he thinks of the dedication that some of his fellow crewmen bring to their jobs and does not press her on the issue. Some people are like that, with their jobs, at any rate – they’re never just jobs to them. Some people are weird - but not always the ones with the job obsessions. And anyway, he’s getting sidetracked here.

 

\--

Turns out that Elizabeth is looking to get to know the planet a little better, as she’s just touched down that day. He’d called her “Madam Skysmith” initially, of course, as was proper – he’s not been raised by dogs, after all (though, even if he had been, the Admiral insisted on local etiquette training for everyone that went on dirtside missions (and what a pain in the neck that training was, every single time!)) – but she nixed that early on, with a “Please, call me Elizabeth,” and so they are on a first-name basis now, and she calls him Roy in return. But yes, so Elizabeth wants to take in the local sights. He snorts, and tells her there ain’t much to Zoave Twilight that’s terribly worth seeing, but she’s insistent, and when she finds out that he’s familiar with the sights – and he fibs her there, he’s sorry to say, since his ‘familiarity with the sights’ really only means that at the last layover here he went out with a local guy – Carleton – who showed him the sights by day and was a fantastic lay during the night – but it’s a planet, right? It’s dirtside, and how complex can dirtside ever be? Plus he has a good mind, and he remembers most everything that Carleton told him about the sights and stuff. And he can always read up on the rest as it comes up.

So, yeah, when she asks him if he’s interested in being her local guide for the next couple of days, until his people swing by to pick him up, sure he says yes. She’s offering decent money (hey, money is always decent), she’s not terrible company, and he was getting bored – how hard can this dirtside-guide business be, really?

\--

Turns out it’s not all that hard to fake, but that there’s a big difference between faking it and really knowing your shit and being a local dirtsider. Things go fine for three days, even if he has a couple of early mornings cramming things into his head – and he sure knows a lot more about Zoave Twilight now than he ever want to. But then, on day four, he gets them arrested.

Yeah, for real. Arrested. Cell and all.

Ooops?

But how was he to know that you ain't allowed to enter the Gardens of Reyflith if you're not a native? It’s not as if there was a sign there saying as much! Or like it was mentioned anywhere in the planetary tourist information files! Like, at all! Which, in retrospect, might totally have been a clue that they did not want any outsiders there, since not even the gardens themselves were mentioned in the – otherwise very comprehensive – visitor information files, but he’d just put it down to sloppy writing. Well, turns out it wasn’t, and that they aren’t, and that Carlton was kind-of breaking the law (he was _totally_ breaking the law, and in retrospect, that's so _hot_ ), when he took Roy there two years ago. Yeah.

So: ooops.

Elizabeth is – in his estimation – pissed with him (and rightfully so). He screwed that one up. They’re in jail, after all, and they need to get someone to vouch for them and to bail them out – apparently, on Zoave Twilight, you absolutely cannot get yourself released from the lockup – someone who is not already **in** the lockup has to do it. Which sucks. Big time. In fact, it sucks hairy unwashed outer rim wormhole pilot balls. (Which he totally does not know anything about and is using as a theoretical comparison here. Absolutely. Thank you for not asking).

But yeah, so Elizabeth is justifiably ticked off with him – but it's all right, he’s not alone on planet, after all – not like she is – his guys are hanging around somewhere, and all he really needs to do is get in touch with them and then they’ll come over and get them released. So, no problem there. Well, all right, so the Serge will be _furious_ with him, but Serge Sully is all right really, for all that, and it’ll blow over and be fine, and maybe she can be talked into not even telling the Admiral about it at all. And it’s not as if he does not deserve the fury. He’ll take the heat, they’ll be sprung from jail – end of story. I’ll be fine.

 

 

*-*-*-* Officer Evelly Talmura, Zoave Twilight Incorporated Security Forces *-*-*-*

There is something unusual about the prisoners this time round, Evelly Talmura thinks to herself. When she heard that they were bringing in two off-worlders – a woman and a man – who have trespassed into the Gardens of Reyflith, her first assumption was that they must be a couple that had been out looking for the thrill of the illicit, and then been caught in the middle of enjoying said thrill.

They get a lot of those, here in Spaceport Holding Station #8c.

Evelly has no idea why the Gardens of Reyflith are considered something to risk the lockup for – all they were ever supposed to be was a quiet place of repose and meditation, where the workers of the port could go to get away from the hubbub and bustle of their working days, and where loud and drunken off-worlders are not allowed to go and disturb said peace and quiet. And since it apparently is too complicated to screen drunken and loud off-worlders from quiet and sober off-worlders at the park entrances the gardens simply became a place where no off-worlders at all are allowed to go, but still … they're just gardens.

These two, however – they’re not a couple that was thwarted in any illicit attempts, of that Evelly is sure once she sees them. Nor are they inebriated at all. No, they really do seem to be exactly who they say they are – two off-worlders curious about the sights of Zoave Twilight, who inadvertently wandered into the Gardens of Reyflith.

The man’s ID chip told her that he’s a merc, and he looks the part all right. Broad shoulders, with a strong face and a military cut of brown hair surrounding it, he walks with the slight swagger of people who spend most of their time in artificial gravity environments, his back held straight and his brown gaze friendly, but penetrating. Not precisely curious, but – alert. Yes, alert is a good description of him.

The woman – is more of a puzzle. Elizabeth Skysmith of Beta Colony, researcher. Researcher of what, though? The ID gives no answer, and Evelly is curious. Elizabeth Skysmith is considerably older than her companion, and her curious eyes take in everything. And while she’s definitely annoyed with her companion – whom she’s apparently hired as her local guide, something that Evelly finds very amusing, because, hello, hiring an off-worlder as a local guide? Not a smart move! – she also seems to be amused by the whole situation somehow. Which Evelly finds strange, since there isn’t anything in Spaceport Holding Station #8c to get amused by or excited about – but since an incomprehensibly amused off-worlder is infinitely preferable to a loud and obnoxious drunken off-worlders who makes a fuss she’s inclined to like Elizabeth Skysmith for that reason alone.

The man – Roy Fertulon – is at the comm console right now, making a call to someone who – from his frequent cringes that the rather loud and annoyed voice on the other end provokes – must be his superior officer, and Evelly cannot help feeling a little vindication at his obvious embarrassment. Zoave Twilight’s laws might seem stupid sometimes, sure, but the law is the law, and it applies to ignorant off-worlders just as much as to any native inhabitant.

When Mr. Fertulon finishes his call Evelly leads him back to the temporary holding cell, waving for Ms. Skysmith to follow her out as she guides him in. She leads her to the comm console in turn, waving for her to take a seat.

“You may make one comm console call now. More calls will be allowed to you later, as and when they are required. Please be aware that, under Article 143, Paragraph 6 of Zoave Twilight detention law I will be required to listen in on your conversations at all times, and that a record of your conversations will be kept by the local authorities for 180 Zoave Twilight standard days after the end of all proceedings against you,” Evelly rattles off, the familiar phrases almost a sing-song by now.

Elizabeth Skysmith smiles at her, with what again seem to be faint traces of amusement, and replies in an exquisitely polite voice: “Thank you for that offer, Officer Talmura, but that is not necessary. I do not wish to contact anyone at this time.”

Evelly blinks, “You don’t?”

Ms Skysmith shakes her head, her movements smooth and graceful as she rises and turns to go back to the holding cell, “Not right now, no. I think I will let Private Fertulon handle this particular problem for the both of us. I might come back to your offer, however, should his efforts …” she pauses, as if searching for the right word, or maybe just to be polite “… unexpectedly fall short. I have confidence in him and his compatriots.”

Evelly nods and unlocks the cell door again, so that Elizabeth Skysmith can step inside, still unruffled, still graceful. “I see.” She doesn’t, not really, but then she doesn’t have to.

 

 

*-*-*-* Roy Fertulon *-*-*-*

Turns out, it’s not Sergeant Sully that shows up to bail them out. It’s the Admiral, herself.

Oooops.

 

 

*-*-*-* Admiral Elli Quinn, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet *-*-*-*

Elli Quinn is _pissed_. The annoyed kind of pissed, not the drunken kind of pissed – which she’d really much rather be, as that would mean she’d be on leave, far away from her crew of semi-competent idiots and troublemakers, and probably having a good time. As it is, she’s not off on some lovely vacation somewhere, her crew is indeed a crew of troublemakers and incompetent misfits, things are going wrong all over the place, and they’re on a schedule here, people, they really are, and … yeah, it’s that kind of a day. And just how can so many little things go wrong on a simple fly-by pickup job anyway?

At least the rest of the fleet is safely on its way to the next jump point by now, since she decided to run the pickup with just their shiny new Betan-built courier ship _Seraphiel_ , which can fly circles around the other ships in the Dendarii Fleet, she’s that fast. Quinn’s not supposed to be here, but hey, she’s the Admiral, after all, and rank must have some priviledges. And if one of them is to just invite herself along on a little side-trip to get to know their new ship a little better, well … it is a lovely ship, after all.

The _Seraphiel_ is about the only thing that’s not being a problem right now, though. First one of the shipments they are supposed to pick up was not in its assigned place, which meant that the purser immediately hurried off to talk to the station logistics department. Then one of the crewmen they’re picking up had a problem checking out of his temporary quarters – so she sent Sergeant Sully to deal with that problem. Which meant that, when the Sergeant told her about Private Ferulton having managed to get himself locked up into detention, she had no-one easily available to assign that job to, but had to go herself. A pilot is far more essential to getting a ship readied for undocking, after all, than a mere Admiral. She huffs in exasperation.

So now she’s striding towards Spaceport Holding Station #8c and she can almost feel the righteous fury blazing from her eyes. Pedestrians scatter out of her path at gratifying speed. Zoave Twilight’s spaceport is an annoyingly open complex, fully of airy spaces and trees and plants and open sky, probably lovely to stroll through on a pleasant downsider day, but right now it is raining outside, and she, of course, did not bring appropriate protection. Who needs weather, anyway? It’s a bloody nuisance, that’s what it is.

But once she gets to Holding Station #8c, the Prison Officer turns out to be a bright and efficient young woman, and Quinn can rustle up no cause to be annoyed with her. She deducts the necessary fine from Quinn’s Dendarii business credit chit in gratifyingly short order and has the release forms ready for her to sign.

Quinn scribbles her name and frowns at the unfamiliar name and vaguely familiar face that gazes back at her from the screen copy of Elizabeth Skysmith’s release papers. Sergeant Sully told her that Ferulton had managed to get a civilian locked up alongside him, due to no fault of the civvie, and of course the Dendarii are prepared to free the innocent bystander. _Innocent bystander, indeed!_ Quinn thinks with a mental snort, chasing a half-remembered conversation. _Teki would say the Dwarf is still giving me orders, even after all these years._

Elizabeth Skysmith, though … she’s definitely a curiosity. Might be a Barrayaran agent, since that lot usually goes by a dozen different IDs, and there’s more than one of them that Quinn’s been introduced to at least three times – and never by the same name. But still, what would a Barrayaran agent be wanting with Ferulton? They know how to contact Quinn, after all – no need to go through one of her men. Unless some situation arose here on planet… . Elli’s frown deepens. Best to be on her toes and not give the game away. _Never give the game away – unless it gains you a tactical advantage in the next round!_ Miles’ voice whispers in her head. Teki might have a point.

Still frowning fiercely, she follows the Security guard to the door of the holding cell. Ferulton and the civilian woman are sitting on a padded bench in the holding area, talking quietly. Both look up as footsteps stop in frot of the steel bars of the door, and Elli turns her stern gaze on Private Ferulton, who springs to his feet and salutes with gratifying speed. She returns it and nods in acknowledgement, and then lets her attention wander from his ‘at attention, eyes straight forward’ stance towards the civilian woman. She, too, has risen to her feet, and is watching the interaction between Elli and Ferulton with … bemusement? Elli narrows her eyes, speculatively. Yes, she definitely knows this woman, though she is not able to place her at all.

The Security Officer has released the door lock by now, and it slides open automatically, allowing Elli to step into the cell. “Oh, at ease, Private.” She snaps at Ferulton, suddenly tired of his fixed, expressionless stare.

His shoulders relax slightly, though his back stays ramrod straight, and he audibly gulps as he turns his head to meet her gaze. His “Ma’am” is a satisfying mix of brisk and cowed. She’s pleased – it’s good to be leaving a professional impression behind for the Security Officer to relate to her colleagues. They’ll undoubtedly be visiting Zoave Twilight again.

“I expect a full report, Private Ferulton, once we’re on board the _Seraphiel_ and out of local orbit. Now skit and help the Sergeant with the loading. We’re behind schedule as is, and an extra pair of hands will come in handy.”

He salutes again. “Aye, Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am. Elizabeth,” he nods courteously towards the civilian and turns to leave the room.

There. Private sufficiently cowed and manoeuvred out of earshot, and all in under two minutes flat. Miles would be pleased. She turns her attention back to the civilian, whose bright eyes are now studying Quinn with amusement.

“Admiral Quinn at your service, Ma’am,” Elli holds out her hand, and receives a firm handshake in return. “Sorry about …” she makes a gesture with her free hand, taking in the holding cell and the whole Security Station “… all this. I hope it was not too much of an inconvenience, and that you were not unduly worried.”

The woman waves this aside. “Not a problem, I assure you, Admiral.” She laughs, a little ruefully, and seems to make a quick decision. “You know, my son once told me that the Dendarii used to consider daring rescues to be their particular specialty, so I figured I was in pretty safe hands.”

 _Oho_ , Elli thinks in sudden realization, eyes widening a little, involuntarily. _Well played, Countess Vorkosigan!_

Quinn nods, and makes a gesture for Cordelia to precede her out the door. “You can reassure your son that we still do, Madam …” she pauses, and makes a show of searching her brain, “…smith …smith … I’m sorry, was is Skysmith? I’m terrible with names.” She winks.

“No, you’re good. Skysmith it is.” Cordelia laughs as she steps outside Spaceport Holding Station #8c, where the rain has inexplicably stopped “Can I buy you a cup of tea for your trouble, Admiral? Or is your schedule too tight for that?”

Quinn considers this. She’d initially planned on heading straight back to the ship, with only a brief stop at the cargo dock to see if their elusive shipment had been located, but really … the _Seraphiel_ is a fast ship, and a little delay now will just mean that they get an excuse to test her at full speed later, heading out to the rendezvous point. Oh, well. Rank has its privileges, after all.

“Oh, I think they’d better be able to spare me for an hour or so. Lead on.”

 

 

 

*-*-*-* The End *-*-*-*

**Author's Note:**

> This is my help_pakistan fic for Glishara, who said: "I want a Destinies, earlier and later verse fic about Cordelia encountering the Dendarii in her travels!" I hope this comes close to being what you wanted ... I found it very hard to write - I think my Cordelia does not yet know who she is, now that she can be/has to be someone else again, and so its very hard to write her. So I finally decided to re-write what I had and give four different external views of Cordelia, of how she comes across to people that don't know her, or don't know her well.


End file.
